I sought Him in temples where anthems swell Stained glass windows and polished sermons suave; Yet here I knew He did not dwell, While poor child of dust creeps to his grave.
I sought Him in churches rustic and plain Eager to drown my heartfelt sorrow, These mockery so futile and vain As I searched for a brighter morrow.
In meadow alone, a breeze touched my face Whispering of days bygone, yet still dear When life flowed at a leisurely pace And I felt His presence - O! so near!
Bittersweet weeping of the mourning dove Awakens me to sad pleading eyes Shattering my heart with vials of love. Forsaken man and beast hold God's disguise.
I see Him in each rippling blade of grass When dew of morn glistens with His tears. In moaning of wind I hear Him pass Through aromatic pines and lose all fears.
God does not dwell in temples made with hand, But speaks to us through each soughing pine. Proud wealthiest mansions o'er all the land Mocked by His majestic Hand divine.